


he's good and he's bad and he's all that i've got

by bluegay



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Where In The World Is Bucky Barnes?, cap quartet: the world tour, captain america: serpent society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-02 18:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19447561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegay/pseuds/bluegay
Summary: Dear Bucky, he starts,I don’t have a heart murmur no more, but I think it’s still unwell. It beats harder, screams every time I think of you and I think it misses you somehow. I know I sound like some kinda dope, but Buck, I think I understand where it’s coming from, I really do. I don’t know if I believe in Jesus anymore, but ain’t it crazy that you’re alive? Some kinda miracle from up above or maybe even down below, because who knew miracles could hurt so fucking much, huh?His hand grips the pen so hard he hears the plastic crack down the side.But what did I expect? Where there’s me, there’s you, that’s what you said, right? Do you remember that, Buck? Hand on mine, voice all earnest, swearing up and down you’d never leave if I didn’t. Till the end of the line. I can’t tell if this means both of us broke the promise or kept it. I don’t know which hurts more.★An accidental worldwide road trip to find an amnesia-ridden assassin, featuring a flying therapist, a slightly less amnesia-ridden assassin, and a very angsty and slightly confused supersoldier.





	he's good and he's bad and he's all that i've got

**he’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that i’ve got**

★

_"oh lord, oh lord, what have i done?_  
_i've fallen in love with a man on the run_  
_oh lord, oh lord, i'm begging you, please_  
_don't take that sinner from me_

 _there wasn't a wrong or right he could choose_  
_he did what he had to do_  
_give me the burden, give me the blame_  
_i'll shoulder the load, and i'll swallow the shame_  
_give me the burden, give me the blame_  
_how many, how many hail marys is it gonna take?_

 _don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not_  
_he's good and he's bad and he's all that i've got_  
_oh lord, oh lord, i'm begging you, please_  
_don't take that sinner from me"_

 **— the civil wars,**  
_the devil's backbone_

★

**1**

**SANTIAGO, CHILE**

**_STEVE ROGERS DOES NOT PRAY_** anymore. His mother may have raised a good, God-fearing boy, but now there are far too many things Steve fears more than God. He has thrown himself into a raging sea, laying prey to its currents for decades, has lived three lives, each more unbelievable than the last, has watched as the cold stole everything he loved — there are worse things on this Earth than God. Steve Rogers does not pray anymore, but on nights like these he can’t help but find himself with his head hung low in supplication, whispered pleas falling from his lips — _please, not again; please, let him be alright —_ and he won’t admit it but on darker days, he can’t help but think _please, let him remember._

It comes from a sharp, selfish pinch at the base of his skull, the same one that made him drop his shield from the helicarrier, because he knows and has always known that if he should die, it should be at Bucky’s hand, world be damned. It is the same one that made him crash the Valkyrie because no life at all would be better than a life without sunlight. It is the same one that made him start the search for the Winter Soldier, because there is nothing in this world he wants more than to see him alive, to hear him breathe once more.

When Steve was younger and his heart wouldn’t beat without hesitating, Bucky would bring Steve’s head to his shoulder and join their hands, laying them on his chest, and like that, he would teach him how to breathe. With his one working ear trained to his friend’s pulse, Steve’s heart found its haven. After the serum, when his breathing was regular and his heartbeat slow, his hands would find Bucky’s chest once more, his serum-enhanced hearing tuned to a steady song of _he’s alive, he’s alive, we’re alive, he’s alive._ After the fall, he breathed alone. He had forgotten how hard breathing could be.

On nights like these, he remembers. His heartbeat doesn’t stutter like it used to, but his chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, and he can’t find a rhythm – _inhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, inhale, inhale_ – and he ends up on his floor, head between his knees, gasping for air. Sam calls it a panic attack. Steve calls it withdrawal.

They’re in Santiago now, and the Soldier has dropped off their radar, evaded them once more. He’s probably already on a plane to who-knows-where, and Steve has no idea what they’re doing. They’ve been tracking him ever since they found Steve by the riverbank, bruised and battered and with Bucky’s name on his lips, with every resource they have left, but nothing seems to be enough. The Soldier is always one step ahead of them somehow, and Steve can’t help but think about what he could’ve done differently. Every single thing he could’ve done, from back in 1945 all the way to the present, every single time he could’ve helped or changed something about what was done to his best friend.

Some, very small, rational part of him that sounds oddly like Natasha tells him that it’s useless for him to feel guilty, that it isn’t his fault and it’s Hydra’s, but he can’t help but blame himself. If only he’d gone back and scoured the land to find the body, if only he’d investigated further, if only he’d known better, if only – if only he’d been better. A better soldier, a better friend, a better man.

 _Not a perfect soldier, but a good man._ He's not so sure anymore.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself right now, when the war is on pause and there’s no one he can punch to feel better. He doesn’t know what to do, so he writes letters. When he was still five foot four and ninety pounds soaking wet, just Steven Grant Rogers and not Captain America, he always carried a small notepad and pencil in his pocket. He would draw everything he saw, and everything he saw was Bucky; Bucky’s hands, his hair, his eyes, his smile, the way his head fell back when he laughed, the small mole at the back of his right ear.

Steve was always the artistic one, but Bucky was the one with the words. Language bent to his will, fit perfectly in his mouth, and long before he first raised his fists or picked up a rifle, words were his weapon. Bucky never wanted to fight, but when he did, he fought to protect. There was not a person that didn’t love Bucky, and how could they, he practically exuded charisma with everything he did and said. Steve hasn’t drawn a thing since the ice, but now he writes. He puts pen to paper once more, but instead of long, looping lines, he shapes letters.

 _Dear Bucky,_ he starts, _I don’t have a heart murmur no more, but I think it’s still unwell. It beats harder, screams every time I think of you and I think it misses you somehow. I know I sound like some kinda dope, but Buck, I think I understand where it’s coming from, I really do. I don’t know if I believe in Jesus anymore, but ain’t it crazy that you’re alive? Some kinda miracle from up above or maybe even down below, because who knew miracles could hurt so fucking much, huh?_ His hand grips the pen so hard he hears the plastic crack down the side. _But what did I expect? Where there’s me, there’s you, that’s what you said, right? Do you remember that, Buck? Hand on mine, voice all earnest, swearing up and down you’d never leave if I didn’t. Till the end of the line. I can’t tell if this means both of us broke the promise or kept it. I don’t know which hurts more._ He stops. His hand is shaking, and he rubs it over his face. It comes back wet. _I miss you, Bucky._

He writes and he writes till he has no words left. Then, he takes the paper, folds it, and puts it in his bag, tied with the others. He goes back to bed and closes his eyes. That night, Steve Rogers dreams of ice.  


**Author's Note:**

> hi, friends! holy shit i'm really excited about this. i really hope you like it, and if you have any suggestions or feedback or anything, please let me know! this is an especially short chapter, the others are going to be far, far longer, this is meant to be just like an introductory-slash-prologue sort of thing. also, writing canonverse is really intimidating, wow, didn't expect it to be to that extent. 
> 
> this is set post ca:tws and ignores pretty much everything after that, and is basically inspired by what captain america: serpent society could've been. i'll be updating this very soon, so i'd love it if you stuck around for more, and i hope you enjoy it! thank you so much for reading!
> 
> you can find me on twitter at @616kinney :-)


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